


Graceless Lady

by threemeows



Series: Wild Horses [4]
Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before Series - Jenny Han, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018)
Genre: I may have a problem, what is my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 08:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16155461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threemeows/pseuds/threemeows
Summary: On the night before she leaves for Korea, Lara Jean decides to do something a little crazy.





	Graceless Lady

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from The Rolling Stones' Wild Horses.

Set in the same universe as [I Might Get To Too Much Talking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16114733), but you don't have to read that to read this. Also, this is movie-verse with book-verse thrown in (namely, while the movie is in Oregon, I've set things here in Virginia like the books do).

 

*

 

Except the hot tub incident that shall not be named - and maybe that simply awesome dive straight into John Ambrose McClaren’s car to escape Genevieve (that shall also not be named because Peter looks like he’s going to crack several his own teeth at any mention of John) - and okay, a spontaneous road trip cross state lines to visit UNC with Chris without telling anyone – and all right, agreeing to fake-date Peter Kavinsky king of the cafeteria crowd in the first place (not to mention jumping him on the track for her entire gym class to see) – Lara Jean Song-Covey generally does not do crazy. She does not do wild. She does not do rash decisions.

 

And yet here she is, trying to accurately gauge the distance of a tree branch from the back porch roof of her boyfriend’s house. In the middle of the night. While on said tree branch.

 

Not for the first time in her life, she huffs to herself, _How does Peter make this look so_ easy _?_ At least with her house there’s a nice, sturdy bike shed abutting the outside wall - a perfect step up to the front porch roof and then just a quick shuffle to her bedroom window. That’s how Chris got in for years - how Peter has.

 

Here, though - it’s only a tree. A very unsteady tree.

 

She can see a bluish glow from Peter’s bedroom window, but not Peter. Which means he’s probably lying in bed, watching Netflix on his phone or something. Hopefully.

 

Oh god what if this doesn’t work? What if she falls? What if he’s already asleep? Her relationship with Mrs. Kavinsky is still just plain weird now and she seriously doubts Peter’s mother is going to like getting woken up in the middle of night to see her son’s girlfriend lying spread eagled in her rose bushes with a broken leg.

 

The ridiculousness of the situation makes her snort laughter through her nose. The branch dips perilously and despite herself Lara Jean lets out a little shriek before remembering the goal was to not alert anyone of her presence.

 

The bluish light in Peter’s room bobs, winks out. Then his bedroom light turns on.

 

Oh no! She ruined the surprise.

 

Peter opens the window, the flashlight on his phone on. “Get out,” he snaps, scanning the backyard lawn. He must’ve thought her scream was a stray cat or something.

 

The thought that she perhaps should’ve worn a pair of cat ears and a tail makes her laugh even more. The branch dips again.

 

“ _Lara Jean?!?!_ ”

 

“Um, hi,” she says, with a little wave.

 

“What the _fuck_ are you _doing_ -“

 

“Shhh! Do you want your mom to hear?!”

 

“You’re the one laughing. And screaming. In my tree,” he points out, arching his eyebrow, but his voice is significantly lower. “Which, um, care to explain?”

 

Lara Jean grins at him. “Surprise?”

 

He bursts out laughing, too loudly. “Shhh!” she hisses, laughing too, as she steps forward.

 

The branch almost plummets, leaves shaking crisply. Lara Jean gasps and takes a running dive towards the porch roof. Peter exclaims, “Whoa whoa WHOA -” eyes widening almost comically - probably the exact same expression on her face to be quite honest - and he lunges halfway out the window to grab her hand. She trips forward, safely, but a little banged up, onto the porch roof.

 

“Are you _trying_ to kill yourself?” he yell-whispers as he helps her, wincing and muttering, into his bedroom.

 

“That wasn’t the objective,” she says, limping to his bed and flopping down. “Ow.” She rolls up her pajama pants and finds not only a rip in the puppy and owl print cotton fabric but also an angry, long scratch on her knee. A trickle of blood is starting to ooze down her leg.

 

“Ah, shit,” Peter murmurs. “Lemme get something for that.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

He closes the door extra carefully behind him - and takes a really long time in the bathroom trying to be quiet. But he finally returns with some paper towels, Neosporin, and bandages. He squats before her, getting to work.

 

Lara Jean chuckles when she sees the bandage theme. “Avengers?”

 

“Leftovers from when Owen was littler and always scraping himself up,” Peter says, dabbing at her wound with the paper towels.

 

“Yeah right. I bet you wear them when you get a boo boo from lacrosse,” she teases.

 

“Duh,” he replies as he dabs ointment onto her knee. “Why do you think all the Spider-Man ones are gone?” He sticks a Thor bandage on, then leans over and kisses her knee with exaggerated flourish. “All better.”

 

Lara Jean just looks at him. He looks back, confused. Lifts his eyebrows and says, “Uh, you ... okay?”

 

“Um, yes, ok.” Lara Jean clears her throat. Crosses her legs. Uncrosses them. Re-crosses and fiddles with the cuffs of her sweatshirt. She meets his eyes squarely - she can feel her own practically bugging out of her face. “I. Um. Would like to stay here. For the night.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” he says casually, clearly not getting it. “We just gotta get you out before Mom and Owen wa -“

 

“No, I mean.” She huffs out an impatient breath. She’s done this whole speech before. It should be easy. “I would. Like. To have sex. With you. Um, tonight. Right now.”

 

Peter just looks at her, blinking like one of the owls on her pajama pants. She can almost hear a _plink plink plink_ sound with each eyelid flutter.

 

“Well not like, _now_ now,” she amends, stuttering. “But like now as in like, within the next five to ten minutes. Or seconds. Whatever. But yeah, now.” She stops, waiting. “Say something?”

 

“I um ah am trying?” he says, scratching the back of his head. He doesn’t say anything though.

 

“Peter?” she asks cautiously.

 

“O-kaaaay,” he finally says, a long, drawn out exhalation. “Um. This isn’t like ... Beach Week right?” He looks up at her through his lashes and he just looks so . . . so lost.

 

Lara Jean flinches. This isn’t going as planned. Beach Week had been one whole terrible misunderstanding between them and she does not want to replicate that. “No. I mean yes but no.” She takes a deep breath. “I meant what I said then. I wanted to do it with you then, because I - I love you. And tomorrow I get on that plane to Korea and I won’t see you for a month and I just thought - I’m not trying to tie up things in a bow, Peter, I’m really not -”

 

“Hey hey hey.” He reaches up for her and she leans over to him. He settles down on the floor, back against his bed, and she slides easily onto his lap, face snuggled into his neck. He smells like fresh soap and clean bedsheets and she can feel the rhythm of his breathing, of his heart.

 

Tomorrow she won’t be able to do this, for an entire month.

 

And in the fall, she won’t be able to do this for quite a while.

 

He plays idly with her hands, brushing the pads of his fingers softly along her knuckles - her fingernails, where Margot had painted ten perfectly detailed Korean flags in anticipation of their trip.

 

“You know, you could’ve just texted,” he says. “I would’ve come back. You wouldn’t have had to almost kill yourself.”

 

“I know,” she says. She kisses the crook of his neck - right at the spot where he likes. His hand stills - then grips hers lightly, gently. Like they’re so precious to him. As with every time he does something like this - so simple, so earnest - her heart flutters. “But I dunno. I just wanted - I guess I wanted to prove that I could.”

 

“To who? Me?” He moves away to look at her, confused.

 

“No.” She shakes her head. “Myself. I wanted to take a chance. Like . . . like how I took a chance with us, before.”

 

His smile is so bright - his nose scrunches up and she’s reminded of the time he first told her he loved her. It seems like ages ago, in that lacrosse field. It seems like yesterday.

 

“There really is no one like you, Covey,” he says, and kisses her forehead affectionately.

 

She smiles and settles deeper against his chest. They sit a little while longer, just listening to each other breathe. Then - “I’m going to miss you,” he whispers against her temple finally, and she closes her eyes, feeling rather than hearing the hitch of his voice. And she knows he’s not just talking about Korea.

 

He’d just been over for dinner with Dad and Trina and Grandma. Everybody had been so excited, Kitty and Margot chattering and exclaiming over everything they’d get to see and do. And Lara Jean was, too. Grandma kept saying she was going to take them to all her favorite restaurants and places - places she used to take Mommy, when they would go back for the summer. The idea of experiencing things that Mommy used to do just made her feel warm and comforted, like she was snuggling inside a familiar blanket.

 

And Peter had been trying to stay happy and positive throughout the entire dinner, he really was - asking questions, paying attention to what Grandma was saying. But then they went outside to sit on the porch and she could tell - he was upset. They ended up not talking much, shoulder to shoulder on the steps, just going over their FaceTime schedule. She knew he was thinking the same thing she was - that a month may only be a month being apart, full of FaceTimes and WhatsApps . . . but then pretty soon, very soon, it’ll be four years of being apart. That those FaceTimes and text messages will be their daily existence, instead of holding hands or driving to school or kissing each other hello . . .

 

And that’s why, after he’d gone - after he’d kissed her goodnight so desperately, so longingly - she’d gone upstairs. Laid face-down in her bed, and sobbed into her pillow. She’d heard Kitty knock on the door and say her name softly, but she never answered. Eventually she’d put on her pajamas and got ready for bed, because that was the sensible (Margot-ish) thing to do. But she’d laid under the covers for hours, thinking, churning all different thoughts in her mind - UNC. Korea. Peter. Mommy. What it meant to take a leap, with Peter, with UNC. What it meant to be loved, and love someone back, with all her being.

 

And now she’s here, with him.

 

Silently, she stands up, switches off the light - locks the door. With her back to him, she takes off her sweatshirt, slides out of her pajama pants. She’s only in her panties and a ratty sleep cami, no bra, and she’s knocking herself for not choosing a cute set but hey that’s what being spontaneous means, she supposes - like not having sexy matching underwear before losing your virginity.

 

The chill of the air is surprising - her knee is throbbing, and she ignores all of that, and her skittering heart, and turns to him.

 

He holds her at arms length, he holds just her hands. “I’m not doing this if this is goodbye, Covey,” he says, quietly. “If you’re doing this to close the book on us.” And she sees it there, that fear he had before - and she doesn’t know what to say or do to reassure him, make him understand, how much this isn’t about losing her, losing each other. It’s about keeping him close to her, a precious, beautiful part of her, forever.

 

She steps towards him, until she’s so very close - reaches for the hem of his shirt, helps him out of it. Tiptoes, hands against his bare chest to steady herself. His breath his slow but deep underneath her hands, his skin warm. “It’s not,” she whispers against his mouth. She forgets to breathe for a moment as they kiss - his hands have drifted to her sides, her back. “It’s - it’s opening a new chapter.” She pauses, kisses him again. “Of bodice rippers.”

 

He chuckles softly into her mouth - the motion makes her giggle too. “Not wearing a bodice Covey,” he reminds her, and snaps her cami strap sharply.

 

“Ow!” She reaches over and pinches his side. Then they’re both cracking up, hugging and kissing and still laughing.

 

And she’s running her hands up and down his bare ribcage, the bump-dip-bump pattern of his spine. Feeling the heat of him against her, pressing her warmly into the mattress, his hands hot and gentle all the same. Everything feels cloudy and also sharply focused - like she’s falling and flying at once.

 

And he’s still laughing quietly, and she is, too, and very soon they’re not talking much at all.

 

*

 

It isn’t exactly perfect.

 

There’s the awkwardness of the whole condom thing (“This part will probably never not be awkward, Covey.”), and trying to figure out where to put her legs exactly (“I dropped out of gymnastics when I was ten, Peter.”), and of course he helps her out beforehand with his fingers and mouth (“Oh, that was nice.” “I _bet_.” “Shut up.”), but the fact of the matter is, it just plain hurts. (“You okay?” he whispers against her neck, and she nods frantically into his shoulder, not to reassure him but herself. “Y-yeah,” she says, but he doesn’t move until she kisses him, until she’s sure, until she whispers against his mouth, “I’m good, really.”)

 

But then there’s also the way he kisses her, just so tenderly, on her eyelids, her neck, her mouth - and the way his breath hitches every time she brushes her hands against his sides - and how every time he pushes into her it gets bit more ... well, it gets nicer. She doesn’t shatter around him, not like those times they’ve hooked up before, when she wasn’t quite ready for _that_ but quite ready for other stuff . . . and yet, despite it all, just watching his eyes close, feeling his breath sputter out like a flame between her breasts - the way he kisses her afterwards, the way he looks at her, softly, like he can’t believe she’s really here, with him . . .

 

No, it isn’t perfect. But it’s pretty close.

 

*

 

“Go on. Say it.”

 

“Say what?” Peter grins down at her. Lara Jean thinks if he were a cat, there’d be yellow feathers sticking out of his teeth.

 

“Peter Kavinsky, you know exactly what I mean,” she says, in her most stern voice possible, given the circumstances. Which isn’t stern at all.

 

“Okay.” He clears his throat, attempts to stamp out his shit-saying grin. “Ahem. Ahem. Ahem . . . You’re welcome.”

 

She slaps his stomach. “You ASS!” And suddenly they’re in the middle of a tickle fight, trying desperately to out-do one another and simultaneously not laugh. She never expected herself to sneak into her boyfriend’s room in the middle of the night. And she never expected to be in the middle of a naked tickle fight in said boyfriend’s room. But then again, she never expected to be congratulated on the mere fact of having one’s at-the-time fake boyfriend slip his hand into her back pocket, or fall in love in the middle of a lacrosse field two years ago, either.

 

Life, huh?

 

They finally call a whispered truce and settle in. She lies on his chest, hands linked underneath her chin. He’s pillowed his head with one hand, the other playing idly with her hair, eyes closed. She’s trying to stay awake, even though she doesn’t want to. It’d be nice to sleep here, in these sheets that smell like him - like warmth, like love, like home.

 

“You good?” And the way his eyes shadow slightly reminds her once again that for all the devil-may-care attitude he constantly exudes, Peter still needs some reassurance. And that she’s the only one who can give it to him. That kind of power is humbling.

 

“Yes,” she says, firmly.

 

They don’t talk for a while. It’s so late - or early, whichever, the crickets have stopped chirping long ago.

 

“When did you know?” she asks dreamily, mostly to keep herself awake.

 

He doesn’t have to ask for clarification. They’ve had this conversation before, but that was right after their first reunion, on that lacrosse field. “You first,” he yawns.

 

She thinks. “I don’t know,” she admits. “It just kinda crept up on me.”

 

He smirks. “Like a ninja?”

 

“Like a ninja.” She snorts, pokes his stomach. “Your turn.”

 

He heaves a great big breath - Lara Jean giggles as she rises and fall with his chest. “After dinner. With Mom. You were so nice to her, even though she didn’t deserve it.”

 

She catches the way his voice hardens at the last bit. “Peter.”

 

“What? It’s true.”

 

Lara Jean worries her lip between her teeth, looks away. She’d been shocked - like she’d been slapped in the face - when Peter’s mother had asked her to break up with him. Peter had been furious. Since they got back together, they actually haven’t spent any time at the Kavinskys. In fact, he’s been eating dinners at her house every night. As far as she knows, the only time he’s been spending with his family is when he has to shepherd Owen to soccer practices.

 

As for herself, the one time she encountered Mrs. Kavinsky was extremely awkward. She’d wanted to be nice and polite - and she suspected from the pained expression on Mrs. Kavinsky’s face that she did, too - but Peter had basically pulled her out of the room. It’s been a far cry from the past two years, when Lara Jean was always welcome to bake a batch of cupcakes in the Kavinsky kitchen, drink hot chocolate at the center island, and tell the mother of the boy she loves how her day was.

 

“What is it?” he asks softly.

 

“Can you just - forgive your mom?” she asks finally. Peter huffs, but she shifts, gesturing at him to move. He opens his arms and she snuggles deep into his chest. “She didn’t want to hurt you. She was just looking out for you.”

 

“It was none of her business!” he says.

 

“Actually, it kinda was,” she says, knowing as she’s saying it that she means it. “How much money would she have had to spent to send you to UNC? How much would’ve been left for Owen?”

 

At the mention of his little brother, Peter balks slightly. “She tried to hurt you -“ he scoffs, after a moment. “What’s worse - she thought you would hurt me-“

 

“No, you’re being dumb,” Lara Jean says, looking up at him kindly. “She was trying to stop you from hurting yourself. Do you see the difference?”

 

Peter looks away, jaw tight. She runs a finger along his chin, keeps doing it until the tenseness eases, slowly and gently. “I love you, and she does too,” she says, when he’s calm. “Besides, I don’t want to live the rest of my life not talking to the mom of my number one guy, right?”

 

She knows she’s said the right thing, because he looks down at her, hugs her tighter to his chest, grinning. “Rest of your life, huh?” he whispers into her hair.

 

Lara Jean closes her eyes, smiles softly. He nips at her ear and says, “Okay, I’ll try.” She squeezes his shoulder to let him know she heard him.

 

The alarm on her phone buzzes - 4:30 am. Her heart swoops high with excitement (almost time for their flight!) then plummets (almost time for their flight . . .)

 

She notices Peter looking at her. He’s sad, but he’s putting on a brave face for her. “Bring me back those face masks,” he says, planting a silly smooch on her lips. “And those socks.” Another smooch. “And lots of pastry recipes.” Another.

 

Her heart rises again, at him, trying to make the best of it - for her. “Will do.”

 

“I’ll drive you back,” he says.

 

“What?! No. How can you -”

 

“If we’re super quiet going down the stairs no one will know. I’ll boost you back up to your window so it’ll look like you spent the night. Then I’ll circle back in twenty. I’ll get donuts for everybody.”

 

She can’t fault his plans, so she nods. She starts to get up and reaches for her sweatshirt and slips it on, only to look down and see it’s actually his green Adler High lacrosse hoodie. “Oh, sorry,” she says, already moving to take it off.

 

He takes her wrist to stop her. “Nah. You keep it. Bring it on the trip.”

 

“Peter, I can’t do that. It’s your favorite. You’ve had it forever.”

 

“Yeah,” he bends down to kiss her. “But I like the idea of you wearing it over there to sleep in.” He sucks her lower lip between his teeth - bites down with enough sting that she gasps, toes curling - just the way she likes it. “Without ... y’know ... anything else.”

 

She grins, flushed, shy - feels his own smile against her lips. “Really?”

 

“Really.” He bites her lower lip again, a little harder, and they both chuckle.

 

“ . . . Well. Okay.” She giggles, kisses him harder. But then her snooze alarm goes off and she pulls away and takes the sweatshirt off, explaining, “I don’t want to get it dirty. I’ll wear it when I’m in Korea.” She starts to stand up and get ready.

 

“Wait,” he says. “One more thing.”

 

*

 

Something isn’t quite right.

 

“You let me know if you need anything girls, I have plenty of snacks,” Grandma says as they pass her in the aisle - they weren’t able to get four seats together, so Grandma elected to be the odd woman out.

 

“Sure Grandma don’t worry,” Margot says reassuringly.

 

As the Song sisters settle into their seats and buckle up, Kitty looks at Lara Jean, the source of her consternation. Margot is thoroughly engrossed in her tour book of Seoul in the middle seat, and LJ is flipping idly through the flight magazine by the window, but she looks like she could fall asleep any moment - her head keeps bobbing up against the headrest.

 

“Are you hungover?” Kitty whispers.

 

“No,” Lara Jean mutters, yawning. “Just sleepy.”

 

“Don’t sleep, it’ll make the jet lag worse,” Margot murmurs pragmatically as she turns a page.

 

Kitty frowns at Lara Jean, who just settles into the seat more as the pre-flight announcements are being made. She’d been upset last night after dinner with the family and Peter - they’d spent hours on the porch together before he had to leave and LJ went upstairs to bed. Kitty is pretty sure she heard her crying. But this morning, he’d come to see all of them off despite the fact it was still dark. He and Lara Jean had still looked a little sad, but nowhere near as bad as Kitty would’ve thought. So while she doesn’t think they broke up (again, the dopes), something is still off.

 

Lara Jean shifts to get into a more comfortable position and winces. “What’s wrong?” Margot asks.

 

“Nothing. Just um, a little sore - I mean, cramp,” Lara Jean replies quickly. “You know these long plane rides.”

 

“We haven’t taken off yet,” Margot says.

 

“We haven’t even started taxing,” Kitty says.

 

“I’m weak what can I say?” Lara Jean replies brightly. Her phone buzzes and she snatches at it faster than Kitty’s ever seen her do before.

 

Kitty narrows her eyes.

 

“You should put that away, we’re going up soon,” Margot advises, still not looking up.

 

Lara Jean’s too busy texting to reply. She’s got a silly half smile on her face that only broadens after the phone buzzes again. She bites her lip.

 

Kitty makes her move. Like her namesake she dodges artfully in and grabs the phone.

 

Lara Jean shrieks - all eyes on the flight turn to her - but Margot’s in the way. Margot exclaims, “LJ what are you doing – _oh my god!!!_ ” And she’s seen, and Kitty has already seen and is seeing.

 

In Peter’s text is a selfie of the both of them, only from the shoulders up. Peter’s smiling softly, and Lara Jean is looking up from lying on his chest, her own smile sleepy and quiet and sure.

 

But they are both clearly in bed. In not Lara Jean’s bed. Which means Peter’s bed. And both of their shoulders and arms bare. Which must mean ...

 

“Oh my god _YOU GUYS DID IT!!!!_ ” Kitty squeals for all of Flight 2653 to hear.

 

“ _OH MY GOD KITTY!!!!_ ” Lara Jean screams, lunging again.

 

“LJ don’t! Wait a second -”

 

“When did you do it? Did you sneak out? Was it awesome? Was it awkward and weird?”

 

“That is _none_ of your _business_ –”

 

“Was it romantic? I bet it wasn’t. He’s such a dope. Did it hurt? Was there blood? I bet it hurt a little. Hey - ow ow ow ow _Margot help!_ ”

 

Grandma stands up at the commotion. Next to her, an even older Korean woman raises an eyebrow at her. “Are they your granddaughters?” she asks disdainfully in Korean.

 

“Yes,” Grandma replies ruefully. “You must forgive them, they are American.”

 

-End-

 


End file.
